


Soap Opera

by lferion



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Drabble, Duncan MacLeod/Methos implied, Flash Fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-07
Updated: 2009-01-07
Packaged: 2017-10-02 09:57:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lferion/pseuds/lferion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Slippery characters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soap Opera

**Author's Note:**

> Written for flashslash 91 promps: cellophane, spurt, bar, &amp; lone

A lone bar of soap lurked under the sink in the bath, obviously a gift — wrapped in crisp, crinkly cellophane and tied with a ribbon still curled on the ends. Methos groped after the elusive package, shivering in his wet and clammy jeans, the tatters of his shirt. Still, falling (leaping into) a pond was better than dying, permanently or otherwise. Finally the package came to his hand, and he banged his head emerging from the cupboard. At least he didn't drop the soap. After something of a struggle (the pond had been more than half frozen over and his fingers were still stiff with cold) he fought the ribbon loose and the bright red cellophane opened to reveal a slippery oval object that looked like a holly leaf-and-berry cluster caught in aspic. The very incongruity made him smile. It sat, remarkably cheerful, in the old-fashioned wire soap-holder that hung on the side of the big, equally old-fashioned white enamel bathtub.

The water splashed and chortled as it ran, beginning to steam finally, mist beading on the mirror and dimming his bedraggled reflection. He wrestled the wreckage of his clothes off, leaving them in a heap near the door where his sword was propped. (Not that he expected company — but who knew how persistent that young idiot would be, and Duncan had left the utilities on, even if the furniture was under holland covers. It wouldn't be the first time he returned unexpectedly.) The jeans might be salvageable, but the shirt was a dead loss, and as for the boots…. Well, he would figure something out, he always did.

Methos sank into the bath, letting the heat begin to unknot the tension and ease the deep chill of winter-cold water and snow-laden wind. Ribbons of mud and blood began to curl lazily through the water, floating away from his skin. He stretched out and reached for the holly-berry soap, which promptly leapt through his fingers and plopped into the water between his feet with a little splash. He fished around as it slithered and slid, teasing his fingertips, but he eventually cornered it with his toes.

As soon as he grabbed for it, it spurted away once again. With a crack of laughter, he gave up and lay back, fitting his shoulders against the curve of the tub. He could always just scrub with the water and his hands. He'd certainly washed with less, and in far less comfortable circumstances. (In places like that benighted pond, for example, with only a tent and a tiny cooking-fire nearby for warmth. He certainly did not miss those days. Rome, however, he did miss.) There was always the corner of the towel, thin as it was. He wiggled his toes and settled deeper into the blissfully hot water.

The surface stilled and with a little bloop the soap popped up, floating mockingly under his chin. This time he didn't bother trying to catch it.


End file.
